“Slow pass’d the night, and now with silver ray,
The star of morning ushers in the day;
The shadows fly before the roseate hours,
And the chill dew hangs glittering on the flowers;
The pruning-hook or humble spade to wield,
The cheerful labourer hastens to the field.”
“Trifles, light as air,” observed Trimbush, “are frequently of the most momentous importance. Who could have thought, now,” continued he, “that brushing a flea from your neck would have subjected ye to upwards of six weeks confinement from all society?”
“Ah!” exclaimed I, “if I could have had any anticipation of such a result, he might have sucked my blood till now.”
“I was in a terrible fright,” rejoined my friend, “that they were going to stop its circulation at once.”
“It would have been one of the most unjustifiable murders ever committed,” returned I.